Today's prompt was to base a poem off a spaceship name in the books of Iain M. Banks. Apparently, his books have lots of spaceships in them, and they have names like Jaundiced Outlook, Gunboat Diplomat, and Very Little Gravitas Indeed. I chose Prosthetic Conscience, because I was wondering what it would be like if you had to, I don't know, buy a new conscience. Enjoy!
Oh, I've heard the rumors.
And I know just what you need.
Come inside for a bit
Explore around.
Aha, here it is. Take a look.
Isn't it shiny? It's brand new.
It isn't perfect, mind you.
It glitches a bit, messes with your morals
But you can't complain, can you?
You ruined your old one, didn't you
Ignored it until it right ran away?
Well, this one here's made of pure steel,
Not flimsy good intentions like that other one.
This one won't be running any time soon.
Price? Well, your soul, of course.
It can't be worth much now, now that you've wasted your conscience.
And your dignity, too, by the looks of it, if you've stooped to buying a new one.
Good! Now, this won't hurt a bit...
Pleasure doing business with you.
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